


i can be ur best friend & u be my homie

by kingsoftheimpossible



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 07:39:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2843336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingsoftheimpossible/pseuds/kingsoftheimpossible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn is a solo artist. Louis is his new bodyguard. Crack trash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i can be ur best friend & u be my homie

**Author's Note:**

> this was never going to get finished so here it is in its unfinished form. sorry about that.
> 
> shoutout to bee g_rendel for the inspiration for the champagne scene since that is SHAMELESSLY lifted from her fic white boy wasted which you should go read right now thanks

Like almost every questionable thing in Zayn’s life, it’s mostly Harry’s idea.

“You like, need a bodyguard, right, to get your manager off your back,” Harry’d drawled from his downward-facing dog in the center of Zayn’s living room. Technically, Zayn was _also_ meant to be in downward-facing dog, but some days it felt healthy enough just to watch Harry do it. “But I think what you really need on this tour is, like, a _heart_ guard.”

Niall’d long since developed a sixth sense for Harry talking shit. It’s why Zayn wasn’t really surprised when the door to his spare room slammed open and Niall strolled out from where he’d been snooping while pretending to tidy Zayn’s art supplies. “Stop talking shit, Harry.”

“Isn’t a heartguard a pill for dogs or something?” Liam asked, eyebrows knit together in confusion when he ducked his head around the kitchen door to peek into the living room.

“Yeah,” Niall agreed, looking thoughtful as they all grimaced and watched Harry wobble into a barely-passable dolphin pose. “Stops them from gettin’ worms and shit. Zayn, you got worms?”

Harry’s face was slowly turning a blotchy tomato-red, but Zayn felt it was best not to comment. Harry was sensitive sometimes.

Luckily, Niall never minded much whether someone was sensitive. “Your face looks like blueberry chick from that Willy Wonka movie. Except red, and kind of grosser because you’re sweaty as fuck.”

It was probably for the best that Harry’s squawk of indignation sent him sprawling off-balance to the floor before he actually shat himself on Zayn’s carpet. Small victories.

“I _mean_ , like someone to look after your _spirit_ as well as your body,” Harry wheezed, giving Liam a thankful look when he produced Harry’s inhaler from his pocket. “Since we can’t all go with you.” They all turned to look at Zayn in eerie unison, and he questioned for about the billionth time in his life how he ended up with this weird fucking crew of misfits as his best bros and marketing team.

“Ant will be there a lot,” Zayn’d pointed out. “And Danny sometimes.” He’d known from the sympathetic look on Liam’s face that he was fighting a losing battle. “You’ve already put an ad out, haven’t you?”

Niall’d grinned, ruffling Zayn’s hair on his way into the kitchen to snoop through the fridge. “You’re pretty smart for a popstar, Malik.”

* * *

 

Louis comes into Zayn’s life like a tornado, if tornadoes were cool and fun and knew how to make bongs out of literally anything. The job posting online had asked for someone _“young, chill, and cool with bro-ing out across the globe”_ \- Niall’s words, but also someone _“in a spiritually healthy place who loves new experiences”_ \- Harry, and also _“must like animals:D”-_ Liam.

That’s how they end up in the back corner booth of a nightclub, a dozen resumes spread across the table between them. Everything’s been a huge bust so far, a lot of teenagers showing up thinking the ad was for some sort of babysitting job for hippy parents (one of them _actually_ fainted when she saw Zayn, which was either flattering or terrifying; he’d signed her shirt before she left). They’re all about one seventeen-year-old-Red-Cross-Certified-babysitter away from calling it quits.

That is, of course, when Louis shows up. He’s wearing what appear to be women’s sweatpants with _HEARTBREAKER_ emblazoned across the ass and a white singlet that’s so thin it’s nearly see-through. His hair’s pointing in about eighty different directions and he’s covered in tattoos and what looks like glitter, shimmering under the club’s dizzying strobe lights.

This is the first time Louis turns up a half-hour late, but it’s nowhere near the last. Zayn will learn this about Louis, later, over a period of months- how he always shows up just late enough to be exactly on time. Right between the moment it’s frustrating that he’s absent and the other moment where Zayn’s worried he won’t show up at all, right in that sweet spot, the split second of time where Zayn just _misses_ him, he’ll stroll through the nearest entrance, hands in his pockets and shiteating grin plastered across his face.

Between the two of them, they’ll never make it anywhere on time. Zayn will learn to set his clock ten minutes slow whenever they’re meant to meet for breakfast. But that all comes later.

For now, this first time, he just thinks Louis is some weirdo approaching their table to proposition one of them for a shag or something. Even the teenagers had shown up with more skin covered than Louis- and they’d smelled noticeably less like a sex dungeon.

“Hiya!” Louis says brightly, coming right up to the table and slapping his palms down, leaning forward far enough they can all easily see down his shirt. “I’m Louis Tomlinson. Is this that babysitting job?”

“‘s not babysitting,” Zayn says for what has to be the fifteenth time, but he’s drowned out by Niall and Harry rushing to say, “Yep, totally, that’s us, here we are.”

“Great!” Louis’ got this dazzling grin on his face, sharp and alert even though he _has_ to be at least a bit plastered from the smell of his breath. He hasn’t even shaved, Zayn notes, then he realizes he’s caught himself staring at the cut of Louis’ jaw instead of the resume Liam’s subtly slid across the table to him. Zayn drops his eyes quickly and struggles to read the small print under the strobe lights, Niall leaning over his shoulder to do the same.

“Says here you’re 24, graduated with a degree in public relations-”

Louis makes a sharp tutting noise and leans forward to drag his finger over the line Niall’s reading. “ _Nearly_ graduated,” he says, voice hard and a bit proud like he’s daring them to say something about it.

“Better’n me,” Zayn says easily, and he’s happy to see the harsh line of Louis’ jaw relax a bit.

Niall cuts off what Zayn thinks _might_ have been a Moment.“To be honest,” Niall says, taking the resume away from Zayn and tossing it onto the table carelessly, “this job isn’t really what you’d call _orthodox_.”

Louis snorts. “Yeah, the ad sort of clued me in, thanks.” He flicks his hair out of eyes and crosses his arms over his chest, hip cocked out while he looks down at the four of them like he’s done them a favor by showing up at all. When none of them immediately offer any further information, a little too shocked by him to have their thoughts in order, he rolls his eyes.“Tell me what you’re looking for and I can be it,” he says simply. There’s something a little lewd about the way he says it, eyes dragging over each of them in turn like he’s sizing them up.

Zayn doesn’t know what to do with him, and when he looks over at Liam and Harry on the other side of the booth, their slack jaws tell him they’re in the same place.

Luckily for all of them, Niall’s there. “Tell you what,” he says, grinning and friendly, “let’s just see how you fit in, yeah? Let’s have a drink.” He says it in that comforting, sunshiny way that would be innocuous if Zayn didn’t know him better. Zayn’d been there, though, the last time Niall casually _let’s have a drink_ ed someone. It’d been Liam, at Liam’s interview to join Zayn’s team, and by the greenish, queasy look on Liam’s face, Liam remembers the experience, too.

There’d been a lot of sick that night. And the next day. And now, any time Liam sees, smells, or thinks about Jameson.

Louis doesn’t know Niall well enough to look put out. His eyes just flash a bit like he’s recognized a challenge, and when Niall hops out of the booth, Louis matches him step for step on their way up to the bar. They return moments later with a tray of shots, and Zayn can already see how this is going to end.

“We’ll do this interview right, won’t we, lads?” Niall settles back beside Zayn in the booth, and Louis physically shoves Harry and Liam closer together so that there’s room for him on the bench. Zayn pretends to cough into his elbow so they won’t notice him laughing at their affronted faces, but Louis seems to be watching him, shoots him a smirk like he can already read Zayn too well.

“First question,” says Niall, picking up a shot glass filled with what looks and smells like straight whiskey, “what the fuck are you wearing?”

Louis laughs, tipping his own shot into his mouth in time with Niall before daintily placing the glass back on the tray between them. “Going to be fucking honest, forgot this _interview_ ,” he says the word with heavy emphasis, amused tilt to his lips, “was even happening til about ten minutes before I showed up. Grabbed the nearest things and rushed over, didn’t I?”

Zayn looks at Louis’ clothes again, they all do, trying to place what he must’ve been doing that this outfit was the nearest thing.

“Christ, where were you? Cheer camp?” Niall asks, laughing at his own joke even as he dumps another shot into his mouth.

Louis downs another as well and smears the back of his hand over his mouth before grinning filthily, eyes cutting to Zayn for a moment before he looks back at Niall. “Was eatin’ out,” he says, shameless. He sticks his tongue out and wiggles it for emphasis, not that it was necessary now that Zayn’s really looking at the messy disarray of his hair and the dark bruises sucked low on his neck.

Harry makes a strange noise from beside Louis and everyone looks at him, but he just waves his hand airily, cheeks pink. “Sorry, please continue,” he says, looking at Louis that _way_ he looks at people he’s planning on sleeping with. Zayn sort of wonders if it’s going to work. It does more often than not.

Louis seems to have a read on him though, snorts and raises one eyebrow in a manner that’s sort of devastating. Zayn’s glad that look isn’t pointed at him. “I didn’t know this was _that_ sort of job,” Louis snaps, holding Harry’s gaze until Harry blushes fiercely and looks away.

“Don’t know what you mean,” he mumbles, fiddling with his fingers where his hands are laced together on the table.

“Sure you don’t, Casanova. Keep your dick in your pants until the interview’s done at least, god.” Harry looks interested again at that, but Louis turns back to Niall before he has a chance to see, giving him a _can you believe this guy_ stare that sends Niall off laughing face-down on the table.

Zayn’s never seen anyone outdrink Niall, and a half hour later he has a slight suspicion that Louis is cheating somehow, but the look on Niall’s face is way too good to pass up.

So far, Louis’ told them that he plays football in his free time, smokes more than the normal amount of weed, spent most of uni dancing at a club called The Kitten Tower, now dances at _another_ club called Dignity, and, most importantly, he actually knows who Zayn is and has heard almost all of his music.

“‘s on my deep dicking playlist, isn’t it?” he slurs after an honestly unhealthy number of shots. “Right between Rihanna and that one guy who breathes into the mic too much- you know, sort of creepy? What’shis _name?_ ”

“The Weeknd,” Liam supplies automatically.

Zayn’s still dealing with the visual of Louis fucking and being fucked to his tracks. That’s certainly something.

“Was at one of your shows last month, too,” Louis goes on, as if he hadn’t heard Liam speak at all. “Sick as fuck; honestly.” He shoots Zayn a Look, something teasing and impressed all at once, and Zayn just blinks at him, can’t think of anything to say except a mumbled _thanks_.

“So, really,” Louis says after a moment, looking like he’s having to focus very hard to stay upright in his seat, “what’s it going to take for me to get this job, whatever it it? This _heartguard_ job,” he clarifies, giggling a bit with these little wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. Zayn’s already well on his way to composing half a dozen songs about him.

Harry leans a little closer to Louis, does it in that artful way that leaves his unbuttoned shirt gaping open invitingly. “What do you _think_ it’ll take?” Harry asks, voice low and earnest, watching Louis’ face closely. It would be creepy if Zayn didn’t know he looked at everyone like that, can’t help himself.

“I’m not sucking your dick right now if that’s what you’re suggesting,” Louis says sharply, glaring at Harry and then reaching up to flick him on the nose. It startles everyone, even Louis, and they all end up laughing stupidly for a moment.

Harry whines, “I _wasn’t_ ,” through a bout of giggles, fooling absolutely no one.

“He’s harmless, I swear,” Zayn says, rolling his eyes and laughing at the way Louis’ nose is scrunched up in distaste. Louis frowns at Zayn for a moment, like his brain’s working too hard to keep his face neutral, and then he sways to his feet, steadying himself on the table a moment before lurching away to the bar, shoving people out of his way as he goes.

“Nice going, H, you scared him off!” Niall cackles, and Harry huffs, offended.

“I didn’t _do_ anything, it’s just how my face looks-”

“Like you’re about to dick him down, yeah, no, I’m sure he gets that all the time-”

“Honestly, I’m not doing it on purpose-”

“I’m sure it’s one hundred percent platonic, the way you keep eye-fucking the side of his skull-”

Their bickering is cut off by Louis returning to the table, uncorked champagne bottle held loosely in one fist.

“‘m gonna show you a trick,” he says, waving the bottle dangerously close to Harry’s head, sloshing a bit out onto Harry’s expensive coat. “‘m gonna show you a trick, and then you’re gonna hire the _fuck_ out of me.” He laughs once, then schools his face into something serious as he makes eye contact with each of them, making sure they’re paying attention.

“Alright, then,” Niall says, leaning forward to watch as Louis rolls his neck like he’s getting ready to do gymnastics. “Hit us with it.”

Louis smirks, tips his head back, raises the champagne to his lips, and swallows the whole neck of the bottle in one smooth slide until his thin lips are stretched tight around the beginning of the flared body. Zayn is faintly aware of Niall’s low whistle and Harry’s muttered swear, but mostly he’s just watching the fizzing liquid slosh around in the bottle as it drains down Louis’ throat, past the measured working of his Adam’s apple. It feels like it goes on for _ages_ , and when Louis finally pulls the bottle up and out of his throat with an obscene _pop_ , a bit of champagne fizzes out of his mouth and coats his lower lip and chin with white film. He spins the empty bottle idly between his hands like a baton, staring smug as anything back at Zayn.

Niall breaks the moment before Zayn can say any of the hundred stupid things swirling around in his head. “Christ, where’d you learn that, then?” Niall demands, pointing an accusatory finger at Louis. Sort of at Louis. Niall’s handling his liquor better than most would, but _most_ would be in the emergency room getting their stomach pumped by now, so Niall’s probably allowed a lapse in depth perception.

Louis just darts out his small pink tongue, licks the spilled champagne from around his mouth. “It’s a natural talent. Afraid I can’t teach you, mate, have to be _born_ with it.” He winks at Zayn before setting the champagne bottle on the table and Zayn can’t help but stare at the wet glistening on the neck and lip of the bottle, wet from Louis’ mouth, from Louis’ _throat_.

Harry is nudging Zayn’s knee under the table, a move that would be subtle from literally anyone else on the planet, but from Harry it ends up getting the attention of half the bar, feels like. Zayn rubs his knee gingerly and glares over at Harry, beer-addled brain more than a little reluctant to turn away from the pleasantly pink-cheeked young man who just deepthroated a champagne bottle for Zayn’s amusement.

Harry leans in, a bit sloppy, and presses his lips just by Zayn’s ear. “ _I think that’s the one, mate_.”

Zayn actually laughs, giddy, tongue tucked between his teeth, because of _course_ that little show got Harry’s vote even after Louis turned up twenty minutes late with no references and wearing a hook-up’s sweatpants. When Zayn looks back to Louis, his eyebrows are raised and he’s watching Zayn with calculated interest even though his eyes are red-rimmed and swimmy.

“Well, lads?” Zayn asks, speaking to Niall and Liam even though he’s still grinning at Louis, can’t really stop himself, especially when Louis gives him a crinkly-eyed smile in return.

“Oh, like you’d take any of those other fuckin’ hipster squares or teen babies,” Niall gripes, but Zayn knows Louis won Niall over after about his sixth consecutive shot.

Liam, Zayn expects to be a bit more difficult. Except, when he looks over, Liam is blushing heavily and looking _anywhere but Louis_ , which is interesting, to say the least, and hilarious, to put it bluntly. “I think- I think he’s good, he seems- nice,” Liam stutters, eyes boring a hole into the bit of wall directly to the left of Zayn’s head.

“ _Nice_ ,” Harry echoes, voice deep and teasing, and Liam looks about ready to dig under the table.

“For the record,” Louis pipes in, words more than slightly slurred, “I’m _very_ nice.” He leers at Liam pointedly until the table breaks into hysterical giggles, and Harry finally slides over to allow Louis to collapse back into their booth.

“Welcome on board, then,” Niall says genially, and Harry slaps Louis on the back- Louis burps, huge and loud and directly across the table into Zayn’s face. It’s gross, but mostly champagne, and Zayn just ends up snort-laughing into Niall’s shoulder while Harry gives his “better in than out, I always say” speech, because Harry is Shrek at heart.

“This is great,” Louis says happily, then turns his face into Harry’s shoulder in time to announce loudly, “I’m _definitely_ going to puke.”

* * *

The first show is fucking insane. It's not a huge venue, but it's still bigger than anything Zayn ever dreamed he'd play. And everyone knows all the words to his songs, and the noise is fucking batshit, and Louis is standing at the curtain, vibrating, when the show is over.

"Fucking _sick,"_ he shrieks, throwing himself at Zayn bodily so they end up stumbling back onto the stage a few steps. The stragglers in the crowd scream like banshees, and Zayn's whole face heats up, but he waves and can't stop smiling, embarrassed but pleased.

"God, imagine if you weren't such a shy bastard," Louis laughs, tossing an arm around his neck and tugging him along to the changing room. "You'd be up to your neck in ass right now."

Zayn scoffs, surprised into laughing. "I do alright," he defends weakly, grinning down at his feet as Louis shepherds him past sound techs and stage hands.

"Yeah," Louis agrees after a moment, pushing Zayn into the changing room and following close behind, leaning up against the door and shamelessly watching in the wall of mirrors as Zayn strips out of his sweaty stage clothes, "I can believe that."

* * *

 The tour’s been on for two weeks when Louis admits to Zayn that he’d thought the interview was for hiring a fuckbuddy.

“Like, _bro-ing out_? Honestly? _Spiritually healthy_? No one says shit like that unless they’re trying to get away with paying to get their dick wet.”

Zayn stares up at the tour bus ceiling, feeling a little hazy around the edges. There’s a gently-smoking hollowed-out apple on the couch couch between them. Louis is a miracle.

“So you were up for it?” Zayn asks, feeling a bit stupid. His head is slow and lazy and Louis’ thighs are warm where they’re thrown over Zayn’s lap, because for some reason Louis gets to lay across the entire couch while Zayn struggles to stay sitting upright.

Louis hums, giggling into the crook of his elbow. “I’m up for anything,” he says vaguely.

Zayn blinks at the ceiling. Says, “Huh.”

* * *

Zayn mostly keeps to himself, and Louis mostly keeps to Zayn. Which, Zayn supposes, is sort of his _job_.

That doesn't make it less distracting when Zayn's trying to riff around a warm-up and Louis is sprawled on this couch with his hand down the front of his joggers, absently fondling himself while he watches _The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift_ for about the eight thousandth time since its the only movie on the bus.

If Zayn were Niall, he'd ask Louis why he couldn't keep his hands out of his pants for more than ten minutes. If Zayn were Harry, he'd probably have Louis' dick halfway down his throat by now. As it is, he's just Zayn, so he pretends not to watch the way Louis forearm tenses and goes slack every few minutes. He notices though. Can't stop noticing.

"You sound off today," Louis rasps from the couch, dropping his head back to peer at Zayn upside down. "Drink some water."

Zayn grimaces, violently ignoring the patch of skin and shadow visible where Louis' wrist leaves an opening between his belly and joggers. "'m gonna go practice in the bunks, yeah?"

"Suit yourself," Louis shrugs, turning the tv volume up a few notches and stretching out further on the couch. He's a menace.

* * *

 

Louis is a shit bodyguard. Luckily, that’s not actually his job, because if it was, Zayn’d have to fire him.

It’s three in the morning and Liam’s face is blurry on Zayn’s phone screen, blurry but still worried. “What did he _do?_ There’s pictures on TMZ-”

Zayn cuts him off, mumbles, “Someone was talking shit,” quietly so it doesn’t wake Louis up- Louis, who is curled up asleep in Zayn’s bunk, sporting a truly impressive black eye.

“Are you alright? Is _he_ alright?” Liam hisses. Zayn lowers the volume a few bars when Louis makes a disgruntled noise and shifts restlessly in his sleep.

“We’re fine, Liam. Just. He’s mad, you know? Absolutely fucking crazy.” If he smiles when he says it, he can’t really help it. The connection is probably too shit for Liam to be able to tell anyway.

He hangs up instead of sitting through Liam's suspicious, frankly accusatory silence. When he tries to slink away to Louis' empty bunk, Louis' hand curls around his wrist and keeps him in place.

"Stay," he mumbles, soft, and Zayn's chest does something stupid and painful at the quiet word. He can't stop himself from reaching out to stroke Louis' matted fringe away from his face.

"You're a shit bodyguard, you know that, Tomlinson?"

Louis just snores in response. Not like Zayn had expected anything else.

* * *

Louis dances all the time, and it’s a problem. Like, he’d told them he was a dancer, but Zayn hadn’t really made the connection that Louis would probably like... _dance._ Around _him. On him._

“Fucking love this track,” Louis mumbles, stoned soft. His hair’s fluffed up from air drying after his shower and he’s wearing those same sweatpants from the bar that first night, slung low on his hips so the tattoo on his lower belly peeks out. He rolls his body once, like a warning, like, _hey Zayn, I’m about to wreck your fucking world as usual, here it goes._

There are people around- crew and security, the typical post-show crowd working on clean-up and packing, but Louis doesn’t seemed bothered. He slides down to his knees in front of the couch Zayn is white-knuckling, crawls up his body until he’s laughing softly against Zayn’s mouth, hands perched on his thighs.

He whispers, “You look terrified,” before settling on Zayn’s lap, grinding his hips down and inching his soft cotton shirt up his chest, sliding it off and letting it drop beside them on the couch. “I just miss dancing,” he says, eyes glittering, grinning down at Zayn’s tense face.

“Well,” Zayn’s voice is raspy from performing, from the heavy smoke Louis kissed into his mouth the second he walked offstage, “go on then.”

Getting hard around Louis has become a nearly daily occurrence. Zayn isn't sure Louis does it on purpose, but he does look pleased whenever it happens.

Like now.

"There we are," he singsongs, giggling and boneless when Zayn's half-chub slots against his bum through their layered clothing. "Zap!" he adds, tapping a finger pointedly against Zayn's tattooed forearm.

Zayn tries to shift away and laugh it off, face heating up. "Alright, that's enough, Lou," he murmurs, placing his hands on the dip of Louis' waist and lifting him away. Louis collapses, easy, across the couch, and he looks devastating with his pink cheeks and hooded eyes, scrunched nose.

"You're always leaving the party too soon, Malik," he whines, splaying his thighs wide and running his palms over his stomach, rucking his shirt up. Menace.

"And you're always taking weird fucking pills people hand around. You're lucky I can mostly take care of myself, Tomlinson, because you're the _worst_ bodyguard."

Louis makes a soft, hurt noise, eyelids fluttering shut until Zayn's left staring at his fanned lashes. When his eyes open again, slow and sleepy, his pupils are blown, barely a ring of blue around the black. "Lucky I'm not your bodyguard," he slurs, kicking out his foot until it's pressed to Zayn's chest. "Heartguard," he laughs, digging his toes in and wiggling them a bit.

Zayn's heart does that stupid, painful thing again. He swallows, wrapping his fingers around Louis' bird-boned ankle. "Whatever you say, Lou."

* * *

Louis is a terror in the morning, dehydrated and pissed off at everyone except Zayn, who somehow mercifully always escapes his temper tantrums. 

"Feel like shit," Louis grouches, throwing himself bodily onto the couch. 

"Look like shit," agrees Zayn. He doesn't have to look up from his phone to know that it's a lie. Louis always looks good. Even when he looks like shit.

"Clever." Louis digs his toes into Zayn's thigh, beats his fist heavily against the back of the couch a few times. "Was I terrible last night?" he asks after a while. "I feel like-"

"You were fine," Zayn cuts in. Doesn't want to think about it much, would like to make it through one day without a Louis-boner.

Louis just hums in response. "So you liked my dancing?" he asks, sly and quick, trying to catch Zayn off his guard.

"I think everyone likes your dancing, Lou." He stands quickly, Louis' feet dropping from his lap to the couch with a dull thud. "D'you want tea?"

* * *

 

It happens like it was always _meant_ to happen. Like one minute Louis is giggling smoke into Zayn's mouth and the next they're sprawled on the floor, grinding like they're in the background of a music video.

Louis' so easy, joggers sliding down his hips until he's bare in Zayn's lap, arms wrapped around his neck while their foreheads bump together, lazy. They keep laughing, and Louis' singing bits of Zayn's songs under his breath while he swivels his hips heavy and dirty.

"This is like the best job ever," Louis mumbles, voice deceptively sleepy for how sharp his eyes are, the way they're jumping from Zayn's red cheeks to his unbuttoned shirt, the bulge in his jeans.

"You aren't getting paid for this bit." Zayn's talking tough. He doesn't mind. He'd give Louis just about anything. "Can you do that thing- the one you did with the champagne?" he asks, brain moving about a billion times slower than his mouth. He can't even tell if he's making sense, just likes the way Louis is touching him everywhere, the way he grins quick and filthy before sliding out of Zayn's lap and between his legs, sinking his mouth down and humming something that sounds suspiciously like the Weeknd.

"We could do a duet," Zayn says softly, watching through a daze as Louis sinks and swallows, cheeks and tongue working while his eyes sparkle like he'd be laughing if he had the spare room in his throat. Zayn comes embarrassingly quickly, but Louis doesn't say anything about it, which is nice. Just says, "I'll stick to my talents, and you can stick to yours," before laughing softly at himself and rubbing off against Zayn's bony hip.

It's not a big deal, and they never really talk about it. But they aren't _not_ talking about it- it just. Doesn't need to be talked about.

It is what it is, or whatever.

* * *

 

"You weren't supposed to fuck your heartguard!" Harry squeals over the phone, but that's quickly followed by the sound of a scuffle and then Niall in the background, saying, "You're just pissed because _you_ didn't get to fuck his heartguard, perv bastard."

Liam takes over the call then, moving away from the tussle until it's quiet on the other end and Zayn can just make out the sound of Liam's pleased eyebrows.

"You're being smug," Zayn accuses, but there's not much weight to it. Louis is standing in front of the dressing room mirror, drawing dicks with Zayn's paint pens.

"I'm just glad things are easy," Liam says evenly. "I think he's good for you."

Louis huffs, apparently displeased with the latest cock-and-balls. "Not enough foreskin," he murmurs seriously, leaning forward to smear the paint away with his hand. Zayn is so soft over him that it's stupid.

"I don't think he's good for anything," Zayn says loud enough for Louis to hear. Louis just grins and shoots him a bird over his shoulder.

"Just jealous of my artistic skills, Malik." He yowls like a cat in heat, screeching so high it's surprising the mirrors don't break. "You'll be after my angelic voice next."

"Already after it," Zayn agrees.

Liam coughs conspicuously on the phone. "You're gross. You're both gross. This is gross."

 

THE END

 


End file.
